


Hemlock

by i_claudia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Character Death, F/M, HP: Epilogue Compliant, M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-09
Updated: 2009-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harry find out that the manager of James's Quidditch team is none other than Draco Malfoy, old memories begin to surface, threatening to take his attention away from the things that are supposed to matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hemlock

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 round of hd_worldcup as part of Team Epilogue and originally posted [here](http://hd-worldcup.livejournal.com/38473.html). (09 April 2009)

In retrospect, Harry thought, he should have guessed when James asked him three times whether he really wanted to come to the match and assured him twice that it would be okay if he didn't go. His years in the Auror Department had clearly not trained him as well as expected in deciphering the nuances of James-speak.

"Don't be a fool," he'd told James, confused. "As if I'd ever dream of missing your first match."

James had looked pleased at that, but still had hesitated. "Mum... "

"She would want me to go. You know she'd go herself in a heartbeat if she could," Harry said gently, wondering if his son was too old for a fatherly arm around the shoulders. "And she'll want to hear all about it when it's over. Your first professional game! What kind of dad would I be if I missed that?"

James had finally shrugged and smiled uneasily, handing over the tickets, and Harry hadn't given the conversation much more thought beyond remarking on it to Ron.

"He's just nervous," Ron declared, waving the latest copy of Q.U.A.B.B.L.E.'s monthly newsletter for emphasis. "First match and all; he's got to be--" he glanced at the back Hermione's head, just visible through the open window, and changed tacks. "Scared stiff, especially with you there. He knows you could've played for England. Would've won for England, too," he added mournfully.

Harry brushed the familiar argument off. "Come on, Smith's not all bad as Seeker. He just needs to keep his head in the game. Besides, I would've been a terrible celebrity. "

Ron grinned. "Mate, you _are_ a terrible celebrity." He leaned in closer, making sure none of the children were in earshot. "Look, are you _sure_ he won’t fly for the Cannons? They need a new Beater; Dawson can't find his own left foot to scratch it, let alone hit a Bludger."

James chose that moment to poke his head out the window, shaking a piece of shortbread at them where they sat half-obscured in the Burrow's garden. "I heard that, Uncle Ron," he accused. "You are not allowed to turn my father into a rabid Cannons fan. We're a Magpie family now!"

Ron pulled a face. "I am not rabid," he muttered, and Harry laughed.

*

The match was close, but quick; the Magpies' Seeker flew circles around Portree's, who seemed to be doing a lot of flinching at nothing and not much actual Seeking. Harry mostly ignored their antics, focusing on James as he flew easily from one side of the pitch to the other. It was a sunny day, unseasonably cool for an October afternoon; wispy clouds scudded anxiously across the blueness of the sky.

"I blame his uncles," Ginny had said when at age five James gave Albus Scorpius such a wallop with a toy Beater's bat that Albus had had a black eye for a week, and she gave George the hairy eyeball for a month afterwards whenever he dropped by. 

Whoever's fault it was, thought Harry as he tried to navigate through the crowds to find the team locker room, he was glad for it if it meant his son could find some happiness in flying.

After three wrong turns and a tangle with one woman's enormous hat, he finally found the locker rooms tucked away in a back hallway that smelled unmistakably of leather uniforms and old sweat. Harry flagged down a man wearing a trainer's uniform and looking as if he'd like nothing better than to quit his job and move to the Maldives.

"Excuse me," Harry said, apologetic. "It's just, I'm looking for my son, and I was wondering if you could--"

The door to the locker room swung open and he turned to look, hoping that it would be James so he could say his congratulations and leave before anyone really recognized him. The trainer used the moment to escape, fleeing down a side corridor as Harry stood in shock, blinking at the man who had emerged from the doorway.

"Ah," said Draco Malfoy after a pause, wearing formal robes and looking supremely wrong-footed at Harry's presence. "I suppose you'll be wanting to see Potter Junior?"

"I, er... yes," Harry said, feeling the world reel and realign around him. "Is he in there?"

"Just a moment," Malfoy said, and turned, leaning around the doorframe to bellow "POTTER!" back into the locker room.

"It's not all that urgent," Harry remarked, wincing.

Malfoy shrugged, studying his fingernails. "They should be getting a move on anyway. The Young Quidditch League is supposed to be in here in an hour, and I'd rather not have to deal with fending off star-struck eight-year-olds."

"Nah, they've all got to be at least fifteen," James said good-naturedly, toweling his dripping hair as he appeared behind Malfoy. "Hi, Dad!"

"Hi," Harry managed. He stood for a minute before remembering that he was there to be a supportive father, not to figure out what the hell Malfoy was doing in his son's locker room. "You were great out there."

James draped his towel around his shoulders and smiled -- the same grin he'd given Harry when, at the age of eleven, he'd knocked out three of Lily's teeth trying to 'teach her how to be a better Chaser, Dad; she's got to stop being so afraid of the ball!' 

"Thanks," he said now. "There were a few times I thought things weren't going to come together, but it all worked out."

"Of course it did," Harry said, and there, finally, was his sense of parental pride; he could feel it creep up out of his chest and spread across his face despite the fact that he probably looked a right fool, beaming like that, and he couldn’t quite forget that Malfoy was still hovering between them, trying his best to creep away unnoticed.

"Dad, you know Mr. Malfoy, right?" James asked carefully, and suddenly Harry had the answer to James's hesitation from before the match. He kept his face carefully blank. "He's the team manager."

"It's been a while," Harry remarked, keeping his voice even, refusing to be startled by the information. Ron had probably known all along, the enormous prat.

"Since the Ministry gala in December, I believe," Malfoy said. "You're looking... well."

Harry gave him a sharp look, suspicious, but Malfoy's face was perfectly composed and neutral; there was no hint of hidden malice.

James shifted uncomfortably. "Well," he said, and cleared his throat. "Thanks for coming by, Dad. I'll Floo you later, yeah?" Harry opened his mouth to answer, but before he could James pulled the towel back over his head and ducked back out of sight.

Harry consciously avoided meeting Malfoy's eyes. "I think he might be afraid of getting caught in the crossfire," he said wryly.

"Is there going to be crossfire?" Malfoy asked, arching an eyebrow.

Harry looked up, surprised. "Isn't there always, with us?"

Malfoy made a noncommittal _hmm_ and studied Harry for a moment. Harry wondered if it would be bad form to break and run. He hadn't had to make small talk, let alone carry a conversation, with the other man in nearly a quarter-century, and their last real encounter had been less than stellar. He wondered if he'd entirely forgotten how.

"Come for a drink with me," Malfoy said suddenly.

Harry stared at him, incredulous. "What?"

"Give me a minute to wrap things up here and then come have drinks with me," Malfoy said. "Two former... acquaintances, if you will, catching up on old times. Besides," he added, narrowing his eyes, "you look like you need a drink. Or five."

Harry thought about it. "What the hell," he said finally. "Why not?" If Malfoy was going to be the manager for James's team, he reasoned, they might as well get any bad blood lingering between them out of the way right at the start.

"Five minutes," Malfoy assured him. "Wait here."

*

"So," Harry started after they'd been staring into their respective drinks for a good few minutes. He was more than uncomfortably aware that the last time he and Malfoy had gone for drinks the night had ended in a spectacular fight and a trip to St. Mungo's to remove the glass embedded in his hand. "How've you been?"

"As well as can be expected," Malfoy answered, busying himself with arranging the bowl of nuts on the table between them. The table was sticky with years of spilled drinks, and the bowl kept getting stuck to it, making Malfoy accidentally dump the nuts.

"How's Astoria?"

Malfoy shrugged, tense. "She's fine, I suppose; Scorpius is visiting her at the moment. We don't speak much anymore."

Harry considered briefly being perhaps a bit more circumspect, but he'd never really been one for curtailing his curiosity. "Why not?"

Malfoy was toying with the rim of his glass. Harry thought he might break it if he pressed its curves any harder. "When marriages fail there tend to be a few hard feelings, Potter. Shouldn't you know that?"

"My marriage hasn't failed," Harry shot back, not caring enough to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"No?" Malfoy said, leaning back. "Then what were the rumours in the _Prophet_ all about, before everything?"

"You shouldn't believe what you read in that rag," Harry muttered, looking back down at his drink and seriously contemplating drinking the rest of it in one go. He should have known better than to accept this drink with Malfoy. Clearly the man was just as completely insufferable now as he'd always been.

"The _Prophet_ may be many things, but completely dishonest isn't one of them," said Malfoy. "There's always a grain of truth somewhere in the stories."

Harry looked at Malfoy, jaw working, before deciding that getting into a row about journalism wasn't exactly how he wanted to spend his evening. "Fine," he said shortly. "We were thinking about separating. The kids had no idea; it was all going to be very amicable."

Malfoy gave a disgusted snort and took a pull from his drink, something dark and potent-looking. "Divorce is never amicable."

"Maybe," Harry said quietly, slouching back against his seat. "But I think I'd prefer it anyway."

Malfoy gave him a sharp look. "James played well today," he remarked after a pause, and Harry gave a weak smile. Subtlety was apparently still not one of Malfoy's strong points.

"He did," he agreed, relieved at the change of subject anyway. "He's always been a great flyer."

"Disappointed he isn't a Seeker?"

Harry looked at Malfoy in surprise. "Of course not. He's good at Beating; he enjoys it. And it's good for him, I think," he added thoughtfully. "I think he enjoys doing something where he'll be recognized for his own achievements, not his father's or his mother's."

"Mature of you," Malfoy allowed.

Harry forgot he was trying to be civil and glared. "Not all of us stopped growing up after the age of twenty, you know," he snapped, and Malfoy glowered back.

"I wasn't--" Malfoy stopped himself and took a breath, visibly composing himself. "I didn't mean anything by that," he said carefully. "Just that I know what it's like to have to live in the shadow of one's father."

Despite Malfoy's attempt at civility, the mood -- if there had ever been one to begin with, Harry thought venomously -- had soured. Harry looked across the table, studying Malfoy's face wondering why he'd even come in the first place. Malfoy looked the same as he had years ago: the same hair, not yet streaked with silver, the same sharp jaw line, the same heaviness behind his eyes that had caught Harry’s interest to begin with.

He might be the same, Harry thought, but the world was different now.

"What are we doing here?" he asked wearily, and shook his head before Malfoy could open his mouth, stopping whatever he might have to say. "Look, thanks for the drink, but I've got to go." He glanced at his watch. "Visiting hours are over in an hour; I've got to go by before they close."

Malfoy nodded. "Fine," he said as Harry rose, wrapping his scarf around his neck. Harry stood stiffly for a moment, trying to think of something appropriate to say before turning to leave, but Malfoy dug into his pocket and took a slip of parchment out before he could walk away. "Potter,” he said, “here. Take this."

Harry stopped and accepted the parchment, examining it.

"It's my Floo address," Malfoy told him quietly. "In case... in case you need someone to talk to."

_As if you would be my first call_ , Harry thought coolly, but he managed a cordial "Thanks" anyway before leaving Malfoy alone at the table.

*

The reception area at St. Mungo's was quiet; a man with a gleaming, chartreuse face hiccupped docilely in a corner while a couple sitting very close together and looking distinctly uncomfortable eyed him warily. The receptionist, recognizing Harry, gave him a fond smile and waved him through. He nodded back, not quite able to bring himself to smile, and made his slow way to the fourth floor, tracing the familiar steps to the Thickey Ward.

When Ginny had taken ill, the Healers hadn't quite known what to do with her. She'd been weak, tired, occasionally nauseous or feverish, and when the more mundane possibilities had been exhausted they'd thought it was a rare strain of dragon pox. The treatment hadn't worked, and they'd tested for other things: scrofungulus, jinxes, hexes, curses, even Muggle diseases. Nothing fit, none of the treatments prescribed worked. She'd forged Muggle medical records and gone to see Muggle specialist after Muggle specialist who had run tests and scanned every part of her body and poked her with needles and metal and collected samples and called meetings so they could gather in groups around her, hemming seriously and peering over the tops of their glasses. None of them could diagnose the illness either, and caught in the storm of prodding and testing Ginny grew worse.

It had hurt to see the shine on her bright hair grow dull, to see her lose her strength to the point where he had to help her walk. He'd felt it like a physical pain in his gut, gnawing worriedly away just beneath his ribs. When they'd both come to the realization that he couldn't take care of her himself, she'd checked herself in to St. Mungo's for an extended stay -- ostensibly for more testing, but he'd seen the look in her eyes, knew she'd given up all but a shred of hope for a cure long before.

They'd put her in the Thickey Ward because it was quiet and easy to keep the photographers and reporters out of, and because they didn't know where else to put her. Neville's parents were gone, both carried off by a particularly severe strain of grypphon flu some years earlier. Lockheart was gone too; Harry didn't know if he'd recovered enough to be discharged or if he'd just been moved elsewhere. Ginny had a corner bed near a window charmed to look out on whatever she wanted, separated from the rest of the ward by cheerful yellow curtains. Harry had come to regard it almost as a second home, which only made the dull ache grow stronger.

"Hey, Gin," he said softly, pulling aside the curtains. "Sorry I'm late; got held up after James's match this afternoon."

Ginny said nothing, just lay there looking pale and impossibly thin, her hands folded neatly on her stomach. She'd slipped into a coma a month earlier, as summer drew to a spectacular close, and while the Healers all smiled brightly at Harry he'd done enough eavesdropping to know that they didn't expect her to live until Christmas.

There were mums in the vase on the small white table next to her bed; he laid the bouquet of wildflowers he'd picked up on his way over next to them. "Looks like someone already brought you flowers today," he said, grabbing the wooden chair from just outside the curtains and scooting it up close to her. "Did Lily or your mum drop by earlier? They're quite pretty; it must have been Lily. Your mum always brings dreadful flowers."

He looked at her, willed her to wake up, to say something, to move. The ward was silent except for the soft sounds of the monitor next to her, measuring her pulse. Her chest barely moved with her shallow breathing, but he focused on it, let the small reminder that she was still alive reassure him.

"You would've been proud of James today," he said softly. "He flew like you; completely fearless. I used to love watching you fly for the Harpies, you know, even when half the time I thought you were about to kill yourself. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might actually pound its way out of my chest, but Christ, Gin, you were beautiful on a broom." He could remember her still, flashing across the sky, a vision in red and gold and green. The memory caught him off-guard, made his breath catch, and he fumbled. "Just... I wish you could've been there."

He sat in silence, watching the shadows move across her face until the large, moon-faced attendant came and told him, not unkindly, that visiting hours were over and that he could come back for another visit tomorrow.

He went home afterwards, walking in the door just in time to catch a Floo call from Al, who was off in some distant corner of the world doing God-knew-what for a private Cursebreaking firm.

"How is she, Dad?" Albus asked, worry creasing the corners of his eyes behind his thick glasses.

Harry shook his head. "About the same, I guess," he said.

"Do I need to start thinking about coming home?"

Harry started, unprepared for the train of thoughts that question raised. "No," he said. "Not yet, I don't think. You just enjoy... wherever it is you are."

Al smiled at the old joke, but his heart clearly wasn't in it. "Bishkek, this month. Are you sure?"

"Albus," Harry said, almost wishing for the days when Albus had come up no higher than his thigh and had looked at Harry with starry, adoring eyes, convinced that his dad had the answers to everything worth knowing about. "I promise I will let you know if anything changes."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Al asked him to pass along his love to James and Lily, and left, returning to his own life. Harry sat by the dying fire, remembering.

*

_It was supposed to be the happiest day of his life, and it was, really. Mrs. Weasley -- Mum Weasley, or just Mum, she insisted now, but that was still to weird to even think about -- had gone full out decorating the Burrow and its small garden, and the paparazzi had been corralled outside the gate. His dress robes were stiff, but not uncomfortably so, and Ginny had looked... It was impossible for him to describe how beautiful Ginny looked, how completely she took his breath away when she dragged him aside before the service and snogged him silly behind a trellis over-laden with clematis blossoms._

_"Isn't this against the rules, me seeing you?" he'd whispered, and she'd laughed, breathless and glowing with the summer day and happiness._

_"For luck," she said, grinning. "And since when do you ever play by the rules?" He'd kissed her again, just for that, bracing one hand against the small of her back and dipping her until Mrs. Weasley's calls sounded increasingly frantic and increasingly close to their hiding spot and she pulled away from him, laughing again and running barefoot to intercept her mother._

_It would have been the perfect day, should have been, but Malfoy had been there, hovering at the back of the ceremony and in the dark corners of the reception until Harry pulled him away and confronted him._

_"I just wanted to wish you well," he said._

_"I was doing much better before I saw you," Harry answered, cold._

_Malfoy flinched. "It was for the best."_

_"Yes," Harry agreed, watching the flicker of emotions crossing Malfoy's face with something that would have been amusement if he hadn't felt just a tiny bit wretched about it. "It was."_

_Malfoy had left after that, and Harry spent the rest of the night dancing with Ginny, letting her gentle touch drain the poison from his mind until happiness settled back into place._

_*_

_"I can't believe you," Malfoy raged, brandishing a shoe for emphasis._

_"Me?" Harry shouted back, incredulous. "You can't believe me? I can't believe you! What were you thinking?"_

_"I was thinking, Potter, about our best interests!"_

_Harry snorted. "You mean_ your _best interest. That's all this is about." He marched out of the bedroom, gathering his clothes. "You invite me into your home, cook me dinner,_ seduce _me... I can't believe I almost fell for the act. Those are the oldest tricks in the book."_

_"They weren't tricks," Malfoy said, following him down the hall. "Look, just because there's some weird... tension thing between us doesn't mean I'm going to throw everything I have with Astoria out the window. That's logic!"_

_"No," Harry said, trying unsuccessfully to control his anger. "That's selfishness." He tried to re-button his shirt while pulling on his trousers, hopping a little to help the process along, and ended up nearly falling._

_Malfoy caught his arm, steadying him, and all of a sudden he was close again, too close, close enough that Harry could smell his sweat beneath his stupidly expensive aftershave, pressing Harry back against the wall. He closed his eyes, swallowing and trying to breathe through the sudden weight in his chest. "Draco, please," he whispered._

_"Please what, Harry," Draco murmured back, his breath warm against Harry's neck. "I'd do anything for you."_

_Harry lifted his arms, grabbed the front of Draco's robes to pull him close, trying to memorize the feel of him. "Don't marry Astoria," he said, concentrating on the way Draco's eyelashes looked when he blinked, the way his hair curled just as it met the curving slope of his neck. He stroked one hand down Draco's left arm, turning it gently and pushing up the sleeve until he could trace the tattoo there, running his fingers along the lines of the Snitch a Muggle tattoo artist had drawn over the Mark, obliterating the last hold Voldemort had had on Draco. "Stay with me."_

_Draco hesitated, his free hand already on Harry's hip, sliding up inside his shirt, and Harry allowed himself a moment, just one fleeting moment, to hope._

_"I can't," Malfoy said, voice ragged. "Harry, I... you know I have to marry her."_

_Harry shoved out, pushed him away, and Malfoy stumbled back, crashing into the wall on the other side of the narrow corridor. "Then I'm leaving," Harry said, furious again, humiliated that he'd even thought about hoping for some kind of happy ending for them, finally managing to pull his trousers up and stuffing his shirt into them. He gave up on finding his shoes as a lost cause and yanked he front door open._

_"Harry," Malfoy called out, but Harry just slammed the door, letting it say everything he couldn’t trust himself to speak._

*

The next day, tired and sore from a night spent half-dozing in his chair, Harry found a cluster of people huddled around Ginny. Recognizing Hermione in the midst of a clump of Healers, he plucked her sleeve, pulling her to one side.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Is she..."

Hermione reached out, covering his hand with one of her own. "She's getting worse," she told him, watching his face worriedly. "The pain's getting pretty bad, and they say it's making it hard for her to breathe. She had a rough patch a little while ago, but she's stable now."

His hand tightened unconsciously around her own. "How long?"

"They won't say," Hermione said, and he let go, moving into the knot of people, closer to Ginny.

He recognized one of the Healers and panicked for a moment when he couldn't remember her name; Pruett, maybe? How was he going to get her attention without looking like a total idiot?

The Healer turned and saw him, solving his dilemma. "Mr Potter," she said, her voice grave.

"She's getting worse?" Harry asked, keeping his voice from cracking through sheer determination. Her expression gave away the answer before she spoke.

"We're doing the best we can," she said gently. "But I'm afraid we may have to start considering our options regarding..." she paused, and Harry tried to take a breath. He felt woozy, lightheaded. The ache beneath his ribs was growing worse. "Would you like to sit down?" the Healer asked. Her voice echoed in his head, as if she was talking to him from the other side of a deep crevasse, and he couldn't quite figure out what the words meant.

"Yes, please," he answered, and his voice did the same kind of funny echo. _Strange_ , he thought, but then someone was pressing him into a chair and someone else was handing him a glass. He drank deeply, focusing completely on the feel of the glass against his lips, the coolness of the water as it slipped down his throat, pulling the pieces of his mind back together. They'd learned the technique in Auror training years ago, but he'd never had cause to use it. He had the sudden, freezing thought that the last two years had boiled down to this -- to Ginny lying next to him as he had a panic attack in the middle of the Janus Thickey Ward.

He wheezed, tried to laugh, and the room firmed up at the edges, coming back into focus. The world was still sort of whirling around him, but the voices of the people looking at him were louder, more intelligible, and he pressed his feet against the floor, testing to see if it was still firm.

"Better?" the Healer asked, watching him closely, and he nodded, firmly bracing one hand on his knees.

He took a breath. "What do I have to do?"

"Nothing has to change, for now," she told him. "We've increased the amount of potion we give her for the pain, and that will work for a while. Eventually, though, even the increased dose won't be enough."

"And what happens then?" he asked; he would have given anything to not ask it, to not be having this conversation at all, but neither could he resist asking it.

"Then all we can do is wait," she said, reaching out to take the glass from him. "We've tried everything; there's nothing else we can do for her except try to make her as comfortable as we can for as long as possible."

"That's not entirely true," another Healer cut in, and Harry looked at him eagerly. He was young and anxious-looking, pushing at the bridge of his small, thin-framed glasses. "We'll study the symptoms of the disease and run tests as well; there's a chance that examining how the disease manifests in this patient may help us identify and treat it if it appears in others."

Harry stared at him. "I see," he managed finally. Healer Pruett gave a very severe look to the young Healer, but he stood his ground; finally she turned back to Harry and gave him what seemed to be an encouraging smile, apparently making the best of a bad situation.

"It will all be very non-invasive, of course," she said. "We would give you and your family the necessary room to say your goodbyes and to grieve. But we should document everything, in case it helps us later on."

Everyone was looking at him, Harry realized, and he wanted nothing more than to disappear. "I understand," he said after a pause, and they turned away back to whatever it was they'd been doing before.

*

He Flooed Al and James when he got home, and sent an owl to Lily, who'd been out when he tried to reach her. Now he lay on his bed -- their bed, it had always been their bed – spread-eagle, staring at the ceiling. He wished distantly that there were cracks in it so he could count them.

He was going to go mad.

"I am going to go mad," he announced to the empty room, to the empty, echoing house, to the crackless ceiling. Somehow saying the words aloud made the situation more surreal, easier to deal with.

It was this surreal feeling -- and only this, he told himself sternly -- that made him rifle through the pockets of his pants until he found the scrap of parchment with Draco Malfoy's Floo address on it.

Malfoy was by the fire when Harry stuck his head through, his feet stretched out to the fire as he slowly turned the pages in _Which Broomstick_. He put the magazine aside when he saw Harry's face. "Potter?" he asked, sounding incredulous. "What's going on?"

Harry looked at him helplessly, at the way his eyebrows furrowed together and his shirt was tugged sideways, revealing one pale shoulder. "It's Ginny," he said, and Malfoy's eyes lit with understanding.

"I'm coming through," he said, standing up, and Harry backed out of the way automatically to let him in. Malfoy tumbled gracefully into the room, brushing the soot from his robes with brisk and practised hands. "Potter," he said, gripping Harry's shoulder and steering him through to the kitchen. "You look terrible. When was the last time you slept?"

Harry slid into the chair Malfoy pushed him into with an airless chuckle that sounded more like a gasp. "Slept?" he said. "A full night's sleep? I can't remember." August, maybe, he thought. Before the illness had taken Ginny under completely, closing her eyes and hollowing her cheeks.

He realized Malfoy was doing something, moving around the kitchen purposefully, opening cupboards and drawers and poking into dusty corners. "Do you even have a kettle anymore?"

"Over there," Harry said, waving his hand vaguely toward what he thought was the right cupboard.

Malfoy peered into the cupboard with a show of trepidation. "Do you ever clean this place?" he asked, pulling the kettle out and dusting it off. Harry shrugged.

"Not really," he answered, watching as Malfoy arranged things on the countertop. There hadn't been much motivation to keep things clean, since Ginny went to St. Mungo's -- he was working if he wasn't at the hospital, and it was just easier to ignore the mess.

He said as much to Malfoy, and Malfoy declared him to be a hopeless case. "You can't just ignore everything forever," he said, his back turned to Harry, and Harry would have almost sworn his voice was _kind_ , except that this was Malfoy and Malfoy was never kind. It was too much to think about, and Harry felt the echoing crevasse creep up on him again as Malfoy clanked around the kitchen.

He'd never much cared for cooking, he thought in an effort to stave the feeling off. It had always been a chore, something Aunt Petunia made him do when she was feeling particularly tired or just annoyed. After... after Malfoy, it had been even more unpleasant. Malfoy, to everyone's surprise, had turned out to be an excellent cook, and too often the clatter of pans or the smell of cooking steak brought back too many memories of laughter and the sunlight catching on Malfoy's pale cheekbones.

He put his head down on the table, resting against the cool grain of the wood. "Talk about something," he said. "Please. I don't care what; just... talk." He could hear the silent pause as Malfoy hesitated, considering, before the quiet sounds of dishes being washed started again. 

"Scorpius has been doing well," he began. "Not that that's a surprise, really. He was always a very intelligent child."

Harry could remember Al talking about Scorpius when they both became Prefects. The boys had bonded, he gathered, over a failed Gryffindor-Slytherin party to encourage inter-house cooperation. The party had been going splendidly, according to Al, until James and Scorpius had gotten into a fight over a Quidditch foul in the last match and the professors had had to charm buckets of ice water to throw at them at them to break them apart.

Malfoy was still speaking, fussing with the kettle as he waited for the water to boil. "He's working for a great Potions Master in Norway now. Not as great as Professor Snape, of course--" Harry thought privately that they would just have to agree to disagree on that point, "--but very well respected. He's been doing some really fascinating work; the Master thinks he's one of the best apprentices he's ever had. He doesn't get a chance to come back to England very often, but I expect that once he finishes his apprenticeship he'll be able to visit more often."

Malfoy sounded almost forlorn, but Harry was distracted from thinking about that by the steaming mug of tea that Malfoy set down next to his ear. "Drink this," Malfoy ordered, and Harry pressed his hands on the table, levering himself up.

"Thanks," he said. The word felt strange in his mouth as he gripped the mug, lifting it to his lips. He took a sip and choked. "Malfoy," he coughed, putting the mug back down and sort of shoved it away. "If I'd wanted a _drink_ , I would've gone to the pub."

Malfoy pushed the mug back at him, sliding into the seat across the table -- Ginny's seat, Harry thought automatically. "No," Malfoy said, "you would not have. You would have sat here all alone with your beer and stared into space."

Sighing, Harry wrapped his hand around the handle of the mug. "I would not have," he muttered, but didn't press the issue.

They sat in a silence that was very nearly comfortable, nursing their tea. Harry tracked the movements of Malfoy's thin hands, the motion of his throat when he swallowed, and did his best not to think about what it might mean that he wanted to reach out and touch the skin just above the crook of his elbow. Not to pull him close, but simply to touch, to feel warm skin move under his hand in a thrum of muscle and pumping blood.

"Tell me more about Scorpius," he said, trying to distract himself, but that was worse, because now he was looking at the glow of Malfoy's cheeks and the soft curve of his ear.

Malfoy set his cup down, watching Harry closely. "I suppose could tell you about an elixir he's been working on."

"Fine," Harry said, focusing solely on controlling his hands so they didn't reach out to touch Malfoy of their own accord. "Yes. Anything."

"It is a variation on the Draught of Living Death," Malfoy began carefully. "The methods are still secret, as they haven't published their results yet, but Scorpius has been telling me about its effects."

Malfoy paused to take a sip of his doctored tea, and Harry drummed his fingers restlessly on his leg. Something was -- not wrong, but different -- about Malfoy. He seemed far too cautious, as if he was testing the ground in front of him.

"It's proved very effective in trials," Malfoy was saying now. "They had a few... difficulties... in the beginning stages, but they've worked out the problems now and created a final product to release." He paused again, and Harry narrowed his eyes.

"Malfoy," he warned. "Whatever you're saying, I'd rather you say it straight out."

"You know that the Draught of Living Death can create the illusion of death," Malfoy said finally. "An illusion so complete that it is in fact impossible to detect unless one knows exactly what to look for." Harry nodded. "This elixir is not like that. Imagine instead that someone is nearly dead, so far along the road to death that they cannot come back, but they aren't able to completely cross over, if you will. Now imagine something that will help them that final distance; something that will allow them to die in peace instead of hanging on to the last painful threads of life."

Harry had stopped drumming his fingers; anger was roiling hotly up through his chest as Malfoy’s hesitancy came through. Was Malfoy offering this elixir for _Ginny_? "How dare you," he spat. "That's illegal, for one thing, Malfoy, and I could have your son arrested for working on it. And how can you come in here, into my own house, and suggest that I... how did you ever think that was a good idea?"

Malfoy didn't move, unfazed. "My son is in Norway, not England, where research of this sort is not illegal, so I'll thank you not to make empty threats about him." 

"Getting Ginny out of the picture will change nothing between us," Harry countered sharply. "You made sure to destroy any possibility of that a long time ago."

Malfoy leaned forward, finally looking angry. "That’s not what I meant, Potter; I wouldn't have said anything about it if I thought it wouldn't be _helpful_ to you. Sometimes you have to face facts. Your wife is not going to recover from this. Would you rather prolong her death, her pain, for your own sake?"

There was a tinny roaring in his ears, a buzzing that only increased his own anger. "That's enough," Harry hissed, standing up. "Get out."

Malfoy scraped his chair back, stalking back toward the Floo. Harry followed him, three steps behind, his wand hand at the ready. "Think about it," Malfoy advised, but when Harry said nothing, he turned without another word and tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace, whirling away in a flash of green.

Harry sat back down at the table after he left, running his fingers over the wooden surface, watching the tea Malfoy had made him turn cold.

*

He watched Ginny for a long time that night. She was restless, murmuring words he couldn't quite catch, her hands shifting at her sides, her mouth tight and turned down at the corners from the pain. Every hour or so a Healer came by to check on her status and administer another spell or potion to make her comfortable -- all useless, Harry thought, and he would've been angry about that if he hadn't felt so tired. They all tried to smile at him, which only made him feel more weary, more sick of the hospital and the way it seemed to drain the colour out of the flowers and the yellow curtains.

Malfoy's words kept circling around his head, coming back to him over and over.

_Would you rather prolong her death, her pain, for your own sake?_

_All we can do is wait,_ the Healer had said. Ginny had never liked waiting, he remembered. She hated waiting for buses, for the Hogwarts Express, for tables at restaurants. After the War ended, when she was at Hogwarts for her final year, she and Hermione had driven themselves crazy waiting for their exam results; during the forty-eight hours she'd had to wait after going to trials for the Harpies Harry was pretty sure he had permanent fingernail marks on his arms.

Was he making her wait because he couldn't let her go?

"What do I do, Gin?" he asked her softly. "What do you want me to do?" She said nothing, but gave a soft moan that brought the attendant over to check on her. Harry left as the man performed scans that Harry could probably now do in his sleep despite his lack of training.

Malfoy looked surprised to find Harry on his doorstep. Harry didn't let him speak.

"It's painless?" he demanded. "Completely?"

Malfoy's expression cleared. "Completely," he answered. "She won't feel anything; I'm told it feels like falling to sleep. Should I call Scorpius?"

Harry scrubbed at his face, trying to step back, to look at the situation objectively, as an Auror might, as he should, but he couldn't do it. He'd never been rational, as Hermione liked to remind him, but he knew things, felt them in his very bones, and he knew he couldn't sit by and watch Ginny slip further and further into a horrifying darkness.

Ginny would never forgive him if he stood by and did nothing.

"Call him," he said finally, and Malfoy let him inside the house.

*

"I thought I might find you here."

Harry turned to see Malfoy standing in the doorway, the spring sunlight streaming in behind him and lighting his hair up in a halo around his head. "Did you?" he said, turning back to sorting through things in the foyer.

"You know, I haven't been here in over twenty years," said Malfoy thoughtfully, walking inside and running a hand over the wood paneling of the hallway.

Harry sat back on his heels with a sigh, giving up on any hope of continuing his cleaning mission. "I haven't either," he said, feeling unusually honest about it. "Too many memories."

Malfoy leaned up against the wall, crossing his arms casually in front of him. "And now?" he asked.

"Now there are more memories at the other house," Harry said, shrugging. "And Grimmauld..." he trailed off, looking at the musty ceiling, the dust that still lay everywhere despite months of trying to clean it out, the curtains hanging ominously over the portrait of Mrs. Black which still hung stubbornly in the front hall. "I needed somewhere that wasn't so familiar, but I didn't want something completely new."

Malfoy let that pass without comment, digging instead in the small briefcase he had with him. "James's training schedule," he said as he passed over a large roll of parchment. "So you know when he's free for lunch or an afternoon of labour. And here, I wanted you to have this." 'This' turned out to be a slim, official-looking document written in some language Harry couldn't decipher. "It's the final report on Scorpius's research. I can show you the translation spell so you don't have to learn Norwegian to read it." He smiled at Harry, and Harry realized with some surprise that he could feel himself smiling back.

"Thanks," he said.

"There's some sort of fancy medical name for it," Malfoy said quietly, "but Scorpius tells me everyone in the lab has taken to calling it 'Ginny'."

Harry looked down at the report in his hands, smoothing its cover as he tried to work around the lump in his throat.

"I suppose the kitchen is an unsalvageable wreck?" Malfoy asked after a moment, pushing past him further into the house.

"Probably," Harry admitted, taking a breath. "I've mostly been eating out."

"Well," Malfoy said. "The sooner you get to work, then, the sooner you can claim the pay-off."

Harry blinked, pausing at the door to the kitchen, which was, indeed, a complete wreck. "What?"

Malfoy was already throwing open drawers and cupboards and dumping out their contents. "I thought I might do some cooking," he said, sounding awfully off-hand and nonchalant about it. "My kitchen is far too cramped to do anything worth doing in."

That was a terrible lie, Harry felt like pointing out. He had seen Malfoy's kitchen, and the place was enormous -- it had a stove nearly bigger than Harry's office, with gleaming pots and pans hanging neatly in rows above it.

He moved forward to help anyway, shaking his head at the mess Malfoy was making on top of the mess already in place. "You thought you'd be better off cooking _here_?" he asked doubtfully, and Malfoy popped his head out of whatever cabinet he was in the process of mauling.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten how good my cooking is," he warned. "I'll take offense and never offer to cook for you again."

Despite himself, Harry felt a thawing, a warming inside his chest that had nothing to do with the daffodils poking their heads up out of the ground outside. "Yeah, okay," he said, smiling again. "Knock yourself out."

Malfoy smiled back at him, a tentative, brilliant thing, and ducked back down to attack the next cupboard. Shaking his head, Harry went open the window, letting in the spring breeze to help them clear away the dust and muck that had built up. "Okay," he whispered, curling his hand around the window frame and breathing deeply, still smiling. "Okay."


End file.
